Dozen
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Before Budapest, before they had a chance to become foes, the Widow and the Hawk shared something of a past. On the vast, white expanse of Russia, a village baker and mysterious outsider come together. Maybe AU, pre-Avengers. Clint/Natasha
1. Chapter 1

Dozen, Chapter 1

This might be AU in the film sense, it definitely is in the comic world. It's pre-Avengers by about ten or fifteen years and is Clint and Natasha-centric. We might see Coulson and Fury.

I've done loads of research here, with Russian, the traditional names, country lifestyle, etc. If you see any mistakes please, please, please let me know!

Loads of thanks to ladygris, who kindly offered to beta this beastie. She's a gem.

-XXX-

A plain of pure white is spread out before him, punctured only by an occasional sheet of ivory flakes. There are a few outcroppings of green-grey stones, perhaps a lonely, thin pine, or bush with twiggy limbs. The sky is slate. Hard and grey and the colour of iron. It presses down upon the landscape.

All in all, the place could be summed up in only a few words: barren, forsaken, freezing. Clint could think of two himself – "ass-cold."

Though he is bundled in layers upon layers, the chill has sunken into his very bones. Flakes have accumulated on his eyebrows and the creases of his puffy black coat. Clint Barton is stiff and cold and he doesn't even know how he's moving his limbs, but his introspection has never been greater.

Three days after the mission, and he cannot get the image out of his mind. The sight of moving, burning bodies, the scent of charred flesh, the bitter taste of smoke in the air…Clint will be lucky if he ever forgets the sight. Or the sounds. The voices.

He's typically not so affected. But this time 'round there were children involved – black-market adoptions were a side deal of this Cabal – and he hadn't quite managed to get everyone out. And kids…kids are off-limits.

Clint closes his eyes. Yes. Kids are his limit. Any fiend willing to use them as a shield has a special place in hell waiting for him.

If not for the kids, he might've made his transport. The opportunity lost, Clint had been forced to find his own way out. "His own way" turned out to be a truck of sheep headed east – except it wasn't east, and it wasn't a reliable truck. They drove two days and three nights before the thing broke down. He'd ended up abandoned on the wintery wasteland. Luckily his pack was enough to support him for . two to three days.

Ever since he'd been dumped, he'd been walkingThough he doesn't quite know where, exactly, he is, Clint knows the nearest SHIELD station is toward the east. Near Moscow. But he's nowhere near the east. Seeing as he'd slept through a great deal of the ride, he hadn't noticed their direction. Which was –

"Stupid."

Oh, Coulson was going to have a field day. Fury would tear into him, too, without a doubt.

The communications are out, too, damaged by the cold, being generally bashed around, and blood. Barton winces with memory. The scrapes on his elbows still hurt, and the gash that extends to his hairline doesn't feel much better. His busted nose and bruised eyes probably look worse than they feel. That gives him a little cheer. His ears still ring, though, and if that doesn't end soon he's not certain how long it will last.

Clint has a vague hope that his earpiece might function after the blood dries out, and perhaps if he gets out of the cold. But that's uncertain, and it isn't entirely likely that he will be getting away from this blasted weather anytime soon. Agent Barton has learned not to bank on "maybes." It's something that could get you killed. And Clint's entire business revolves around not getting himself killed.

Just others.

Possibly the worst part of the whole situation was his distinct lack of weapondry. He'd been forced to dump his kit – bow, quiver, and all – into a nearby stream before leaving the factory compound for his transport—which, of course, he missed. Without his talents being utilized, Clint felt as though he had lost a limb. He could not function to full capacity without his bow. Not even close.

So, he's been wandering about this icy desert for a few days, freezing his toes and other valuable limbs off slowly. At night, he'll find the nearest pile of rocks to curl behind and perhaps snap a few limbs off of a nearby pine for something of a fire. Barton imagines his stale MRE crackers and beef stew is hot, or better yet, legitimate food. Something warm. And good.

"So, not SHIELD, then," he thinks wryly. "Nothing from the Helicarrier…I'll be glad when I'm back in the city."

The New York SHIELD HQ is the closet thing he'll ever get to "home" in his vocabulary. Clint has an apartment, in Brooklyn, small and high above the streets. His "nest." He rarely misses it, as he's gone more often than not, and it's more of a hotel suite than a proper home. But today….

His thoughts are sharply broken by the sight of smoke on the horizon. Clint blinks, once, twice. Smoke. Smoke means fire, fire means…means…people. Civilization.

…And probably some decent food.

Clint surges forward. He stumbles through the snow, unsteady. Where there are people there are transports. Transports that could lead him to Moscow. To SHIELD.

"Only a little longer now."

-XXX-

She can remember a life from before the Red Room. It isn't exactly clear, rather, vague points in time, flares of memory. She can remember her parents Or, at the very least, people who might've been her parents. Tall, smelling warm, soft voices and blurred she can recall dancing. Natasha can still feel her limbs stretch, her muscles tight in a pose. There is the scratch of a stiff tutu's skirt against her arms. The slight ache of her pointe shoes, tightly laced against her calves. Yes, she can remember the lines and the forms and the positions. She remembers grey skies and leaf-scattered streets before a small brick house. A black dog. Red curtains. Faded grey-white sheets. Warm, spicy black bread. A pair of pinchy brown shoes. But not much else.

At some point in her life, there was a beginning. A start to the Red Room, the Soviets, and all that came with the pair. She's not sure how she, Natasha, was selected for the task of…management. Before the Red Room, she was nothing special. They made her special. Gifted.

Gifted with blood.

And then, sometime long after the beginning, there was an after. A point beyond St. Petersburg, beyond a dormitory, beyond her gun. Now.

An after. An after to her most bloody beginnings.

**-XXX-**

**Reposted Nov. 10th, 2012, thanks to ladygris.**

**It'll be a while before we see them together. Gotta set things up, you know….**

**Reviews would be lovely!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Many thanks to ladygris, who is an excellent beta!**

**-XXX-**

She was stupid. Stupid to think they would let her walk away. Natasha's handlers are reptiles, cold-blooded. She knows this, knows the likelihood of her living properly after attempting to step out of the life. That likelihood is slim to none. But she'll take it.

Natasha Romanoff has escaped her handlers. Rebellion began in a small way – first refusing the gun they offered for one of the new models. The old lock kinds had tracking devices implanted in the worn and scratched handles. Natasha knew for a fact, t_hanks to more than a few hours spent by the gun smith's side,_that new tracking systems had not yet been budgeted for the new weapons. She had never refused a gun before. She was getting picky, they said, looming above her like a haunt. Too picky for her own good. But they hadn't much time, and they'd rather their best assassin be equipped with tools she could use, rather than something she felt uncomfortable with, so a newer gun it was.

The next sign was her insistence of setting up her viewpoint at a locale on the very edge of their personal radio transmission zone. She'd fought, tooth and nail, pointing out all of the inadequacies of the location Gregory had selected. _"Too high, too close, far too open, in the cold, little cover. Did they __expect__her to simply shrink into shadows. No. No…."_

Finally, her stanch refusal to shoot. And, being several kilometers away, there was nothing Klaus nor Gregory nor Michal could do about it. The Widow took out the eyes of the Red Room Operatives, then made herself a distraction by shooting out a few windows of the factory house, alerting the target and his gang to an intrusion. Then, she conveniently shot the tires of Michal's van, as well as launched a grenade at the propane tank only a few hundred meters away. If that didn't clue the factory owner in, she wasn't sure what would.

Before leaving her scope, she watched Gregory and Michal fall. Klaus was hit in one knee cap, but she was certain they would let him live – which was a pity. Klaus was probably her roughest handler. He had an unorthodox philosophy when it came to young, pretty female agents. One that causes her very bones to ache with memory.

No matter.

**-XXX-**

What felt like "_soon" _quickly turned to an age. It seems no matter how long he trudges through the calf-high snow, he can't quite seem to reach the edge of the hill. The horizon beyond teases. He cannot seem to get any nearer. The smoke, wispy and iron-coloured, snakes across the shifting sky. Barton struggles to surge on, moving one leg at a time. But it's a lot to ask of his body, and he finds himself sinking further and further into weariness.

He's running out of fuel. Out of time.

If he could just – just –

Mentally cursing himself, Clint drops to the ground. He cannot manage another step. Not without…without some rest.

_"Bad idea, Barton."_

Yes, it is a bad idea. But damn, is it one he'll take anyways. His legs….if they weren't numb, he's certain they would ache something awful. His feet are frozen; yet he's more than willing to bet the slick, slightly-warm liquid he's feeling against them is blood. Which is good. If the blood is warm, he's still got something of a heartbeat left.

Maybe.

Clint looks to the horizon. To the smoke that sways so elegantly. Like a dark-eyed girl in a slinky black thing at one of the clubs he occasionally slips into back home. Hips moving, tantalizing. Perfumed skin begging for a touch. Silently daring him to come forward. To dance.

And who is he to refuse her?

**-XXX-**

She does not leave unscathed, unmarked by the incident. The grenade launcher malfunctioned – more than sparks flared up from the hammer when the projectile was flung from the barrel. The arm of her coat caught fire. Her arm now sports a shiny red, angry burn. Then, amongst the process of fleeing came the hazards of darting. Scratches line her brow. The knee of one pant leg was torn out, leading to a carelessly manufactured scrape. Bruises colour her body. But she is alive.

And free.

From there, she ran. First to an abandoned poor house on the outskirts, then one of the old train car sheds. Next comes jumping one car of a supply train headed north-west. She rides in the rickety-rattling thing for over a day and a half, sleeping through most of it in the moldy hay, before tumbling out. Natasha then spend the next several hours stumbling through the barren landscape before passing out.

She wakes beneath a pile of rather smelly furs and wool. The trapper, a wary gentleman with a scarred face, had found her and charitably carried her back to his shack.

"Goin' to town in a few days," he tells her roughly, averting his eyes. "I'll be dropping you off there. Someone can look after you."

"I don't need looking after."

He believes her too, looking into those icy orbs with a sharpness so keen as to automatically remove an doubt. Like stabbing a balloon with a steak knife.

"I can work," she tells him. "I will work."

One look at her hands – thin, but muscled – and he takes her word.

She is given a large jacket of a faded grey with an olive shirt nearly threadbare from its washing. Too small, he says, from his army days. Her black trousers and shirt are worse for wear, and her fleece sweater too torn to be considered real clothing anymore. But she still has her boots and stocking cap, both black, as well as a white undershirt and undergarments. Natasha thanks him quietly. She sleeps. Eats meager meals of bread and rabbit stew. And otherwise...works through the process of living.

He presents her with bandages and a strongly-scented salve without a word on the first night. Nastaha realizes she must be quite a sight. The first night she washes in a small basin. The water is quick to turn a rusty colour. By the time she finishes, it is murky brown. Barely even opalescent.

The next week he takes her to "town" – which is really just a collection of houses. A village. There is a bakery, a grocer's, a druggist's, postal office, police station, and a few other odds-and-ends shops. But not much else. He leaves her in the town's pub, coming back an hour later to find her still nursing the same drink.

"You're lucky," he says. "Inga's been looking for a girl since Genya left to be married. You'll be working in the bakery, now."

She doesn't know a thing about the task of baking, but accepts nonetheless. At the very least, she can lift. And she can learn.

"She'll pay you a few hundred rubles, and you get a room and food. You cannot do any sneaking around, and you get one day off a week – but she can tell you all of that."

Again, Natasha thanks him. "I can pay you back. For the food, the clothes."

He waves a hand off. "Nyet. It was kindness. I do not get an opportunity to be kind often. You've given me enough chances for at least a year."

With that, he leads her to Inga's bakery. They enter through the back door.

The ovens are on full blast. Natasha observes a neat stack of flour sacks against one wall, a crate of smaller sugar sacks, jars of preserves on a stuffy shelf. Flour covers the scrubbed wooden table in the center of the room. Pans are piled in the sink. Spoons lie amok. Mess and chaos claim the majority of the space - just as a bakery ought to be, in Natasha's mind. She takes in the scene, pleased.

Inga, a stout woman with a shock of blonde hair, stands with her arms crossed in the middle of the small, hot, honey-coloured room, looking Natasha over. Without speaking to the young woman, directing her questions to the trapper, she asks, "And you found her…?"

"A little south of my stead. In the snow. She was frozen."

Inga nods, curiously. "And she's been no trouble to you?"

The trapper glances, almost nervously, to Natasha. Natasha gazes back, unabashed.

"No. None at all. She keeps to herself. Volunteered to cook, and the like. But she was no trouble, no. "

"_Khorosho." _Good. Inga uncrosses her arms. "She'll do." Now her attention is directed toward Natasha, gaze sharp. "What's your name, _devushka?"_

"Natalia," Natasha says, voice hoarse. "Fedorova."

Sophie Fedorova had been one of the ballerinas whose photo graced the wall of the studio Natasha learnt form in as a child. According to Madam Maria, Fedorova had died insane, ill with her own mind. It was a name and a story that stuck with Natasha always. She meant to be always mindful in her work, else she believe she could meet with a similar end. Ballet, spying, assassination, acting…they were all similar stresses. If you failed, your head went to the chopping block – sometimes metaphorically, sometimes not. Natasha wants to ensure she walks away with her sanity intact.

Which is why she'd tried to leave in the first place.

The woman looks her up and down slowly, brown eyes narrowing. She must toss her head to look up properly, as Natasha is taller, and she placed her knobby hands on her generous hips, considering the young woman before her. Natasha hopes and prays she might find someone worthwhile. It had been a long time since Natasha Romanoff was evaluated in such a manner. The experience humbles her. She keeps her eyes soft. No ice here.

"Can you bake?"

"Um…only a little, madam," says the Red Room Operative quietly. "But I can learn. I…I would like to learn."

Inga eyes her. "It's not easy work. Not picking primroses. There'll be lifting. Your arms will want to fall off of their own accord by the end of the first week. Not mention the burns."

Firmly, Natasha nods. "Well then, madam, it's a good thing I don't mind heavy lifting nor burns. Will you take me on?"

She doesn't say a word, merely looks the reedy girl over once more, then allows a smile to bloom across her features. Natasha returned it readily.

**-XXX-**

**A decent response, thank you guys! Reviews are awesome, feedback is what keeps me going.**

**Edited and reposted Nov. 12th**


	3. Chapter 3

**Not a huge response, but I'm still chugging on! I'm up to chapter 9...this shouldn't be much longer than 10 chapters, relatively short ones, too.**

**Thank you very much for following, for the feedback, etc. I've missed this fandom!**

**Much thanks to ladygris, for being an awesome beta! **

**-XXX-**

It is just the trapper's luck that he finds, within the course of two months, not one, but two abandoned souls on the snowy planes. This time 'round it's a fellow who appears to be far more prepared that the shivering little stick Natalia was. He's wearing a legitimate coat and boots. Funny thing, the trapper thought, that the fellow was just as cut up as Natalia.

He's with Inga's brother, Demyan, and Demyan's second-eldest, Kazimir. The older boy, if the trapper correctly recalls, is in the army. Or he died. Even in a village, it is hard to keep everyone's story straight.

Demyan, bless him, was delivering a few of Inga's loaves along with potatoes and coffee for the month. They were just walking to the lake, where the trapper was going to show them his new ice hole, as well as where the big pine fell – something that could prove useful in the spring. Kazimir had come along instead of hanging back to load up the furs the trapper had collected to be sold in town. They paused.

The fellow was first thought to be some trash, perhaps blown off one of the trains. He is just a black mass, but when they near, it soon becomes apparent that this isn't garbage. It's a man. Kazimir nearly passes out at the sight of the bloodied fellow. The trapper cannot entirely blame him.

"_Proklyatie!" _swore Demyan. "Poor bastard."

They all, of course, thought him dead, until Kazimir tapped one foot against the fellow's back. The nudge doesn't wake him, but the murmured groan and slight shifting is enough to convince the men that it isn't a lost cause.

"_On vezet," _the trapper says, shaking is head. "Very lucky. Well, come on then. We can get him to Mama Iluia."

Demyan snorts. "To that witch-doctor? She's no _vrach. _Take her to Inga. Inga will fix him up. Come, my sled is near."

They load the man up, the trapper and Kazimir carrying him to the bed of the sled. Demyan slings one woolly blanket on top of the fellow. The trapper edges away, nervous. Two mysterious strangers appear in these wintery woods within months of one another? He's uneasy.

"Where do you think they're from, Demyan?" whispers the elder man.

He shrugs. "Who knows? Does it matter?"

"No, no," the trapper protests. "But it is odd – two, both injured…."

Demyan shakes his head. "The terrain is rough, _moĭ drug_. Is it a surprise they come to us hurt? The land is not kind."

Still, the trapper is not convinced. "What if they are being followed?" he asks quietly. "What if they have enemies, Demyan? Enemies who are coming for them. People don't just drop from the sky."

Demyan laughs, loud and long, his son chuckling alongside him. The trapper, embarrassed, hangs back.

"Oh, my friend. Have you been reading novels? No, I fear you're using your head too much. They got lost. The land was cruel. They came to us. It is as simple as that."

**-XXX-**

For now it's not been so bad. Natasha can now knead dough, make simpler breads and rolls, ice cakes, fill rolls with jelly, braid dough. She's not completely inept, and has moved beyond stirring or lifting. Inga is impressed with her progress. The baker, Natasha has found, is a kind-hearted soul with a hearty dose of common sense; she is understandably wary of her new employee.

Within the first week they were relatively silent. It was openly awkward. Inga would watch, unabashed, as Natasha moved about her chores. Natasha sometimes gazed back, unafraid. They came to an understanding over dinner one evening.

Over the stew, Inga remarked casually. "Your arm…it does not trouble you?"

Natasha instantly moved to cover the shiny burn. "No. Not much."

Inga's bright brown eyes moved up and down the girl. Still stick thin, the baker sees – and has long seen – the reedy cords of muscle running down the girl's cut figure. She is, aside from weariness and a few minor injuries, in ideal fitness. But nevertheless, there is a certain…limitation to the girl's ability. Her body is sore. Bruised. Igna has worked as something of a healer to the village. She recognizes the stiff motions.

"Tell me," Inga begins lightly, her eyes on the pot, ladling herself a bowl. "How did you manage to wander all the way out here?"

Natasha's eyes never stray from her stew. "I was on my way to Ufa. The train stopped. I got off to stretch my legs. I was attacked by…by a few local boys. When I woke the train was gone. I tried to walk to the nearest town."

Shocked, Inga pushes back from the table. "But – but Ufa is hundreds of kilometers away!" Serov is the nearest city, and it was roughly 800 kilometers from Ufa. The girl was well and truly misplaced. "However...?"

She shrugs, head down.

"Will you go to Ufa now?"

Natasha looks up, finally. "No. I don't think so."

"And…no one is looking for you?"

"No," Natasha replies, voice far-away. "No one at all. I am…nobody."

Inga doesn't quite believe it. But there silences become far more companionable.

A day or so later, the baker knocks on the door to Natalia's shabby little room, bearing a small basket. Inside are bandages, salve, herbs, and a pot of a slightly foul-smelling brew. Questioning, Natasha looked to Inga, who was bustling about the room.

"It's for you," she says shortly. "That tea will send you straight to bed, but it works wonders. And the sage will cleanse you…well, go on girl. Those knees need attending to!"

"Thank you," Natasha says simply.

**-XXX-**

After nearly two months, she finds herself adapted to village life. Not quite comfortable – still wary. Yet, she feels more at ease than she has in years.

In the first few weeks, a parade of curious townspeople frequent the bakery. But Inga keeps her in the kitchens, tending to the ovens and mixing dough, filling muffin tins and slicing cakes. Occasionally curious eyes manage to pry past Inga to see the lovely young redhead aggressively stirring nuts into the bread dough. Later, the boys will follow her to the grocer's and hang around outside in the midst of her chore.

Natasha has had experience. She knew men. But boys…boys are another bucket of squid, as Inga might say. She is wary, though they give her little cause. Inga even remarks on their gentlemanly behavior. Natasha ignores them, for the most part, however. Natalia Fedorova is new. They did not have people come to the village often. Her mystique will wear off soon enough.

In the mean time, Inga was getting annoyed with the young men. When Alexey and Oleg begin hanging around the bakery itself and coming up to its back door, she takes to smacking them with the wooden spoon she carries more often than not. _"Krys," _she will call as they scramble, Alexey stooping to drop his hat, Oleg chuckling loudly. "Keep from my girl, lest I'll give you something to really to look at in my kitchen – some work!"

Natasha leans against the threshold beside Inga, smiling lightly as the boys run. "They're nice enough, Inga."

Inga gives her a look that clearly says _"oh please." _Shaking her head, the baker taps the spoon against her hips testily. "What they have on their minds is not nice," she says grumpily. "And if it's not that, then…well, I'd rather keep my girl. Takes too long to train a new one." She sniffs. Raising a gentle hand to Natalia's cheek, she pats it lightly. The burns have almost disappeared entirely. "You are a good worker. And too nice a girl to be troubled with those thoughts."

The girl smiles. "You are good to me."

"What you deserve. Besides, too young to be thinking of things like that," the elder woman says, waving one hand and turning back to the kitchen. "Come now, the rolls have risen enough."

Natasha stays at the door a minute, eyes flashing closed in pain. Perhaps she had been too young. But the Red Room had made that decision, as they had for all other choices in her life.

Behind her comes the sound of bowls and pans clashing. The clatter breaks her reverie. Natasha trails back to the kitchen, already missing the sharp winter air.

**-XXX-**

**Thoughts? Reviews would be lovely.**

_Devushka – girl_

_Khorosho – good._

_Proklyatie – damn_

_On vezet – He's lucky_

_Vrach – Doctor_

_moĭ drug – my friend_

_Krys – rats_

_Obratitʹ vnimanie – Pay attention_

_Derʹmo – shit, crap_

_Bratets – my boy_

_Da – Yes_

_Spasibo – Thank You_

_Mozhet ya, pozhaluysta,maslo? – may I please have the butter?_

_Oni vpolne druzhelyubno segodnya – They are quite friendly today_

**Edited Nov. 21st**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow, I've gotten some really lovely reviews. Thank you guys so much! Your kind words really mean a lot, especially as I've kept this in the works for ages and really ****striven****to make it something fresh. I appreciate all of the support.**

**My Macbook's charger broke Sunday night, so updates have been and will be delayed for a bit...the new one is due tomorrow, but I've got lots of stuff to catch up on.**

**Much love to my wonderful beta, ladygris! Edited and reposted Nov. 28th 2012**

**-XXX-**

He wakes at some point. The scent of hide, smoke, and barnyard greets him. His face and exposed skin itches a little. Sounds are muffled. Russian. He can hear Russian.

Warm – or warmer than he was before – Clint reckons this can't be too bad of a situation. Without much more consideration, he submerges back into blackness.

**-XXX-**

She is in the back, covering a bowl of raisin bread dough for rising and filling the oven with more wood, poking at the smoldering bits, when Inga bursts into the kitchen. Breathless, the woman leans against the scrubbed wooden table in the center of the room, clutching her shawl to her chest, rearranging the ends in a frantic, nervous haste. Natasha rushes to pour her a cup of water. The woman downs it quickly, then waves her off.

"Natalia, quick, bundle yourself and come with me to my brother's. Bring bread! Bring my healer's basket, and a few candles. Maybe some sage, and tea."

The young woman doesn't question, merely flies to retrieve the items. As she hurriedly wraps the bread, Inga appears again with her jacket, hat, and scarf. Natalia puts them on silently, her fingers fumbling with the buttons.

"My brother was out at the trapper's cabin with Kazimir to pick up a few hides. They were beside the lake when they found a man half-frozen in the snow! Not so different from you, Natalia. They need someone to look him over. Oh, oh, give me that pot—" She indicates the stew on the stove across the room. It is one of Natasha's latest attempts at dinner, and has been waiting for nearly an hour. "—and we'll set off."

They hurry through the ankle-deep snow, Natalia carrying the basket and the stew. All the while Inga murmurs worriedly under her breath. "He's far worse off than you were. Poor man, the Lord knows how long he was out there. He'll make you feel blessed, Natalia."

Demyan meets them at the door, his face grave. Inga's brother lives a little ways outside of the village with his wife and four children. They farm, in the spring and summers, and take on odd jobs in the winter months. Their home is small, but cozy. Natalia and Inga are led into the main room, where a flush of warmth greets them. Themain room is large, open, with yellowy walls and a big fireplace in the center of the furthest wall from the door. The stranger lies on a straw stuffed pallet in the nook beneath the stairs.

The first feature Natasha notices is his pallor. The man is as white as the snow he was discovered in. Then her eyes trail down his face to see the collection of wounds. Clearly a broken nose—she's suffered through enough herself to recognize them by now—and bruised eyes. These are not the injuries one suffers in the wilderness.

His clothes are dark, unremarkable. Though youthful, his face is marked with age, weathered. Brown-ish hair, a tanned complexion, sharp, cut features. He is young, no older than twenty-five. Features marred by blood, dirt, and bruises, it's difficult to really tell what he looks like, but Natasha gets the sense that he is vaguely handsome. There is no telling what his figure is like with the puffy jacket, but if the cords of his neck are any indication, he has some tone. He's got a certain scruff about him. His entire form is tensed, arms crossed over his chest. Eyes closed, the man looks pained – not peaceful – and ill-at-ease. This surprises Natasha. Most people in sleep appear somewhat at peace. This fellow is on edge; she would not be shocked to know if he regularly slept with one eye open.

"Oh, bless him," Inga murmurs. She's already at his side, leaning over his chest. "He's going to keep his fingers. Come here, Natalia, help me get this coat off of him. We need to check for further injuries. Demyan, get your boy to heat up the kettle – we'll need warm water. Better to get that grim off of him, see if there is any further damage."

Natasha began pulling off his gloves slowly. His left wrist flopped uselessly once it was removed. She looks to Inga with wide eyes. The baker is grim.

"Broken. Hold it steady as we take the coat off. We'll set it after he is washed."

The chest is patterned with bruises, but no cuts. His legs are scraped. Three pairs of socks prevented frostbite on his toes, and with that Inga blessed him again. Demyan curses under his breath when Natalia begins to wash the man's face. His pallor doesn't improve. The wet cloth comes away scarlet.

Inga gives her brother a reproachful look. She's reheating the stew and preparing some tea. Across the table she hands her nephew one tin of her homemade salve to pass on to Natalia. Applied to the cuts, that step of the job is done. Now, it's on to the wrist.

"Thank the Lord he's asleep," says the baker. She shakes her head. "If he were awake…this is going to hurt. _Obratitʹ vnimanie."_

Feeling the bones, Inga gathers the point of breakage. Natalia is given the task of holding his hand. Gritting her teeth, the baker steadily sets the bone. In his sleep, the man shifts slightly, groaning. Natasha is exceptionally surprised he hasn't yet woken up. Inga wraps the splint. Her eyes go to the man's hand, where Natalia has laced her fingers through the patient's. The girl only has eyes for the man.

Her work done, Inga lays the arm down. "We'll feed him some tea. Maybe a little bread soaked in stew. He can't have exactly had a feast, out there. No doubt he's thirsty. I'll need you to hold his head, girl."

The task is messy, but Natalia endures it without a trace of disgust. Inga massages his throat to convince it to accept the tea. Once she is satisfied, she moves on to a bit of milk. And finally, she spoons in her wretched herb brew. He'll sleep another five to seven hours, she says.

"Natalia," she says casually. "Why don't you stay here with Demyan and Ana? I can think of no one but you better suited for nursing him. Send one of the boys when he wakes. Can you do this?"

Silent, Natalia nods. Demyan steps up.

"You can sleep here, next to him," he nods to the man. "We'll get you another pallet and some blankets. Will you need anything?"

"Just some sleep," she replies wryly. "I have a feeling this is going to be a long task."

**-XXX-**

**Reviews are always appreciated!**

_Devushka – girl_

_Khorosho – good._

_Proklyatie – damn_

_On vezet – He's lucky_

_Vrach – Doctor_

_moĭ drug – my friend_

_Krys – rats_

_Obratitʹ vnimanie – Pay attention_

_Derʹmo – shit, crap_

_Bratets – my boy_

_Da – Yes_

_Spasibo – Thank You_

_Mozhet ya, pozhaluysta,maslo? – may I please have the butter?_

_Oni vpolne druzhelyubno segodnya – They are quite friendly today_


	5. Chapter 5

**This'll probably be the only update this week...I've got a test and a speech to prep for...yeah...**

**Thank you for the reviews and support! Feedback is always appreciated.**

**Dec 13th Edit: Many thanks to ladygris for beta'ing this beastie. **

**-XXX-**

Things are starting to hurt. Without the whip of chill to numb his limbs, Clint can feel all of his aches. But this is in exchange for warmth, lovely warmth. He inhales thickly, ignoring the telltale pang in his chest. Unfortunately, he coughs. His throat is slicked with gooey substances, coated from his sleep. He swallows. _"Nasty."_

How long has he been asleep? Coughing again, he shifts, eyes still closed. Following his motion comes a rustling sound from nearby. Clint tenses, then blinks up.

Everything in his view is fuzzy in shades of greys and browns. The room vision shifts, however, and a white-black-orange thing looms above him. Barton blinks again. The figure focuses into a pretty girl with full lips, startling blue-grey eyes and brilliant red hair braided behind her neck. Concern is bright in her eyes.

"_Vy mozhete govoritʹ?"_

_Can you speak?_

Russian. He's still in Russia.

Great. Because he's _so _good with Russian.

Swallowing again, Clint summons the words.

"_Da, da," _he assures her. Struggling to rise, he grunts. The girl moves quickly to support him, taking up his left arm. The motion leaves him gasping in pain.

"Careful. You've broken your wrist," she explains softly. "We've set it…I don't know how you didn't wake up…."

He steadies himself. "How did I manage that?"

She shrugs. "Are you hungry?"

"God, yes."

She brings him a bowl and a few slices of bread. Clint watches her move. She's pretty, with a slim form, long hair, full lips, huge eyes. Incredibly young, though. Besides that, he's still technically on duty. She is off-limits. And Russian. Definitely Russian. Her coolness is like a neon sign. Russians are warm – but only with provocation.

As he eats, the SHIELD agent takes a moment to observe the room. It's a shabby, small place with a table in the center, a big stone fireplace taking up the wall beside him, and uneven, rough, brown-grey floorboards. A single window is on the wall opposite him, covered by the drab drape of lace curtains. He smells straw and wool, tinged with smoke, musty herbs. There are a few framed pictures, some pots hanging beside a stove in the corner, but not much else. He appears to be laying under a rise of stairs, a nook of sorts.

After a few sloppy spoonful, Clint settles back. "Are you my savior?"

Snorting, the girl shakes her head. "Hardly. That's Demyan and the trapper."

"Trapper?"

"He doesn't really have a name," she answers vaguely. "But I've just nursed you a little."

"Looks to be more than a little." He smiles. It goes unanswered. Clint eats in silence, half-sitting on his pallet with the girl sitting nearby, her ice-coloured eyes looking down, staring through the floorboards. He can't quite read her. He's not sure if he wants to.

She's stiff, perhaps wary. He cannot blame her – it's the smart thing to do in this country. And goodness knows these people likely needed to be on the edge. Thieves and raiders are not uncommon. But even so, he wishes she would give him something, anything, to let him feel a little more at ease. Unfortunately, it would appear she—_I don't even know her name!__—_isn't the nurturing type.

After a few minutes of silence, the faint crackle of fire and the sweep of wind outside the only noise between them, Clint tries again.

"Where am I?"

Her lips quirk, but her gaze does not rise. "The southern most side of Khantia-Mansia."

Clint blinks. Southwest. Ages away from Moscow. He did have a long ride, didn't he? "How –"

They're interrupted by the entrance of a stout woman in a shawl and velvet cap, her face red, eyes wide. Sturdily built, she embodied village living of Russia with her rosy cheeks and calloused hands. The girl rises quickly to shut the door behind the woman. The elder lady clucks softly, motioning for the girl to stay put. Clint's nurse settles back down. She hangs up her outwear, turning swiftly to look over the pair. "He is awake. You didn't send Kazimir!"

"He only just woke, Mama Inga," says the girl, a little defensive. She rises, distancing herself from her patient to the scrubbed table in the center of the shabby room. With steady hands, she poured a cup of tea for the woman from the chipped blue tea pot. The woman—Mama Inga—accepted the cup and sat at the table. Her daughter – the girl had call her "Mama," after all — crossed to the window. "I thought to feed him first. And Kazimir is asleep."

"Fair point," admits the older woman. "How does the patient?" She nears, peering at Clint. He gazes back openly. For a few moments she looks him over, eyes trailing over his injuries, narrowing on his wrist and busted nose.

"Well, you're alert. That's good. Can you speak?"

"Yes." He winces at his own hoarse voice.

Inga approves. "What is your name?"

"Maxim," he tells her. It was the first name that came to his mind, incidentally the same name as the fellow heading up the cabal Clint was sent to disband. "Maxim Vetrov."

Lips pursed, she nods slowly. "And how do you feel?"

"Like shit," he says. "_Derʹmo."_

She chuckles. "And you don't look much better than it. What happened to you? I suppose she -" Inga points briefly to the girl. "—told you how we found you. You were not a pretty sight, _bratets__." _

He hesitates. There isn't anything too convincing he can say. The way these people are, they would mistrust him. So he carefully constructs an idea.

"I'm an assistant to a train inspector. He had sent me on the track, to make note of some of the condition of the cars. I was moving between cars when a rock on the track flew up, hit me in the head, and I blacked out. Woke up in the snow, by the track. I walked a good while, several days at least. I believe I saw smoke and began towards it, though I suppose the snow overtook me." He smiles lightly. "Crazy, huh?"

Reserved, Inga nods. "Unfortunate. Will there be people looking for you?"

_Probably not,_Clint thinks, holding back a wince. They would think he is dead. "Ah, I do not know. I will go to the nearest city, if I may, and contact the offices." "Well, there will be no travel for you for a while," Inga says briskly. "Not with that wrist, Mr. Vetrov. We're lucky, Natalia has been here to care for you. She can help you through the village. Right now you are in my brother's house. I do not know how long he can keep you, but we've got room in my house for you once you can be moved. For the moment it is just me and Natalia."

"Your daughter has been an excellent nurse." His gaze trails to her. Natalia –_A name, finally_– stands near the window, back to the rest of the room. Her figure cuts a lean curve. At the sound of Inga's short laugh, the girl half-turns, firelight illuminating her creamy flesh and flame-coloured hair.

"Oh, oh, no. You're mistaken. Natalia isn't my daughter. She is – she is –"

"Your kitchen girl," the young woman says without emotion, grey eyes impassive. "I work for Inga."

Chuckling, the older woman shakes her head. "Natalia fell into my bakery a few months ago, similar to you. She has been a god-send."

"Mama, he is probably tired," Natalia says abruptly. "We should let him sleep."

"Yes. In the morning, we can see about moving you, Mr. Vetrov. My brother has four children – another mouth to feed would be difficult." She stands. "I am going to bake the breakfast rolls, Natalia. Make sure he is comfortable, and then come home—we need to glaze the tea cakes."

"Yes, Mama."

With that, Inga leaves. Clint settles back into the pallet, watching Natalia_—__not Inga's daughter, not from around here, assistant to the baker—_as she slowly turns toward the fire. Her cold eyes flicker to his impassively. For a long moment, she looks at him. Now that he's gotten a better look at her, he would guess she's fifteen, sixteen at most. She's as thin as a rail, and has a sharp, dangerous look about her. Like she knows more than you, has an advantage, and has no problem letting you know it. Clint swallows. She's got the ferocity of a warrior in her steadiness. A controlled grace. Natalia…something about her doesn't feel village-life. Maybe it's the way she carries herself or her coolness, or perhaps the fact that her hands – her slim, white, beautiful hands – just don't look like they've seen village work. Work, yes. But not the kind that comes with living in this part of the country.

He finds himself wanting to know more. Inga said she fell from the sky, much like he had. What did she mean? Where did Natalia come from? And wasn't it curious – just so curious that two people had turned up in such similar ways? He wants to ask her how she ended up here, in this wasteland.

Clint opens his mouth, ready to ask, but she is approaching now. No, she can't be just fifteen – not with those hips, not with the way she's looking at him, the curl of her lower lips.

"You need rest. Go to sleep. In the morning, we'll talk."

"_Da," _Clint says, though he's much more willing to speak. He turns on the pallet, cradling his arm, and slows his breathing as he listens for her motions. The noises do not come. _She must be a statue__, _the SHIELD agents muses as he drifts into unconsciousness.

**-XXX-**

**Whatcha think?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Many thanks to ladygris for her most excellent beta'ing, she's been a godsend. Also, thank you, my dear readers for the support. I hope you enjoy...**

**DISCLAIMER: Marvel characters are clearly not mine. If they were, we'd have had Avengers 2, 3, and 4 done by now.**

**-XXX-**

When he next wakes, the room is cold and Natalia is gone. Clint shifts on the straw pallet, blinking back the bright white light streaming in from the room's single window. A woman, blonde and stick-thin, stands at the stove. Pushing back her hair, she stirs a pot of something. Clint sits up slowly, coughing as the sleep slipped down his throat. The woman turns, startled. Her shrewd eyes take him in.

"Where is Natalia?" he asks in a rough voice.

The woman blinks. Clint tries again. She taps her spoon against the side of the already-dented pot. The SHIELD agent winces. "She will be here soon," the woman intones dully. She doesn't appear to be very concerned with him, turning back to the pot.

With nothing else left doing, Clint leans back onto the pallet to stare at the rough underside of the wooden stairs that he was sleeping underneath. The spot wasn't half bad – near the fire, and nest-like with its blankets. The thick smell of sheep and smoke assaulted him every so often, but it wasn't horrid. He's smelt worse, lived through worse. There is a floor, solid and wood. It isn't too cold. And the place is clean.

And there is Natalia.

He shakes his head slightly against the threadbare pillow that smells of musty feathers. The image of her keen eyes flashes before him. He's curious. She's different from a typical rural village girl – and that intrigues him. He's apt to think perhaps she is not any type of village girl. Thinking of her hands again, Clint frowns. Jumping to conclusions isn't his usual way of doing things. Perhaps she has simply lived a better life, and found herself in the middle of nowhere doing farm work. It's not unheard of.

The small room shudders when the door opens and smacks shut. A bright-eyed Natalia stands on the small rug, removing her hat and gloves with great care. She is wearing a massive charcoal-coloured overcoat, the shoulders of which are dusted with a few white flakes. Clint watches her, but makes no move.

She looks to the woman, speaking softly. The woman, a sour look on her thin face, simply nods toward Clint, gesturing with the spoon before turning back to the stove. Amusement rises on Natalia's face. She removes her shawl, a lacy red thing that had been underneath her coat, acting as a scarf. Crossing on light limbs to the stairs, Natalia stoops to kneel beside the patient. Clint crosses his arms over his chest.

"How are you feeling?"

He opens his mouth to say _"fine," _but the truth comes out instead. "_Der'mo."_

She smirks. "I have no doubt. Tell me. Mr. Vetrov, do you think you could walk?"

Clint shrugs. "I could try. May I….?" He gesture to her arm, indicating a need for support.

Natalia extends her arm. Together, slowly, they rise from the floor. They take a moment to bundle him with a blanket before moving forward. Natalia guides him steadily to the table, pulling out a chair with one hand. In the corner, presumably the absent Demyan's wife, eyes them. But she does not speak.

The cool gaze of the baker's assistant stays on him. Clint, unsure, looks back. After several minutes, Demyan's wife plunks down two bowls of some soft beige substance. Natalia's lips quirk. "_Spasibo, _Lara," she thanks the elder woman. Their hostess sniffs, then returns the spoon to the pot, crosses the room, and ascends up the stairs. They watch her before turning back to each other.

"She doesn't like you."

_"You don't say?" _Natalia's bored eyes tell him. She tilts her head, turning her spoon in the beige mixture. Her hair is in a strict plait down her back. It's coppery strands gleam in the dim light. "I won't let her boy Fedor court me."

"Ah." Clint peers at her. "You're old enough to be courted, then?"

She snorts. "Does it matter?"

It is said so darkly, he is taken back. She's not placed her annoyance in him, however, but toward the reminder of the situation. Silence resumes. Clint eats a bit, but Natalia scrapes the bottom of the bowl with her spoon. The mush is grainy, gritty, and relatively tasteless aside from the slight bitterness of oat and a hint of salt. It's not much – far from tasty – but he'll take it. Food means energy, energy means healing, and healing means getting out of this place and back to SHIELD.

Back, he notes, to an even less welcoming environment of steel and sky and a bare little room they call his. But back, nonetheless.

When he finishes, Natalia speaks again. "We're going to move you today. Inga has a room above the bakery. You can stay there until your wrist is better. Demyan's family really can't take on another."

"And after my wrist heals?"

She blinks. "I don't know. You'll have to talk to Inga about that. I don't suppose someone is looking for you? Your job sounds rather important."

He cannot tell if she is teasing, or being completely serious. For whatever reason, he believes it's more of a tease.

"Come, Inga needs me. And without a doubt, Lara wants us from her house." Natalia rolls her eyes. For a moment, he can see that perhaps she is a little young for courting. But it's gone in a flash, with cool eyes convincing him otherwise of her age.

She helps him bundle up in an olive-coloured coat left by Inga last night, along with a pair of worn brown trousers. His clothes are piled in one corner, torn and dirty and damp. He'd woken up in his black undershirt at a pair of long underwear. With a quick look to Natalia, he bends to scoop up the clothes in the corner, tucking them beneath his injured arm. She gives him a queer look, but doesn't say a word.

Boots go one next, with thick woolen socks Natalia tells him Igna made herself. Finally he is dressed for the elements. They approach the door. And then it's outside to a bigger, wider world.

**-XXX-**

_Devushka – girl_

_Khorosho – good._

_Proklyatie – damn_

_On vezet – He's lucky_

_Vrach – Doctor_

_moĭ drug – my friend_

_Krys – rats_

_Obratitʹ vnimanie – Pay attention_

_Derʹmo – shit, crap_

_Bratets – my boy_

_Da – Yes_

_Spasibo – Thank You_

_Mozhet ya, pozhaluysta,maslo? – may I please have the butter?_

_Oni vpolne druzhelyubno segodnya – They are quite friendly today_

**Reviews would be lovely! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the delays...ladygris and I have been working on editing and reposting the previous chapters! Many thanks to her, btw.**

**Happy Holidays!**

**-XXX-**

The bakery is warm, cozy, and the colour of fresh bread - long ago Inga had painted the sparse walls yellow. The ovens swept the winter chill away, and filled the room with the comforting scent of hot pastries. Clint was ushered into the kitchen, sat at the scrubbed wooden table, and made to eat again – even after Natalia informed Inga of Lara's breakfast, to which the baker scoffed, "That scarecrow can hardly feed herself, let alone any others."

He is led up the rickety stairs to the loft, which contains to a narrow hallway. There are two doors. Natalia passes the first one, leading him to the second. The door swings on its hinges with an audible moan. They step inside, Natalia gesturing for Clint first.

It's a bare little room with yellowed once-white wallpaper spattered with sprinkles of blue flowers. There is a chipped little bed, a chair that has seen better days, wispy blue curtains, and a small table near the bed, on which sits a glass lamp – the kind with oil and a wick. On the floor, just before the bed, there is a worn oval rug, hand-made with scraps. He's seen similar versions on his gran's floor back in Iowa. It gives the place a homier feel.

For a moment, he's speechless. The place alternately settles and unsettles him.

Natalia watches him. "Will it do, Mr. Vetrov?"

"Of course." He inclines his head. "Thank you."

"Thank Igna. She is a generous soul." The tone is measured. Clint tilts his head.

"She's been generous to you. It sounds like you and I aren't so different in circumstances, Natalia."

She stills – which he hadn't thought to be possible considering her rigid posture. Nearly breathless, eyes glassy, the young woman nods shortly. "Perhaps not. Mr. Vetrov."

**-XXX—**

Inga allows him to rest for the first week. Clint stays in his room most of the day, coming out for breakfast, then again in the afternoons to evening for tea, quite time, and dinner. He sleeps a lot, or attempts to repair his com gear. Natalia, on the third day, brings him a stack of books. They're Russian, of course, and smell of mildew. He accepts them with humble thanks.

They sit together in the evenings, in the dulled lamplight, the snow-misted world at the windows. Inga sits in her rocking chair, knitting or doing a lap-weaving. Natalia stares into the fire. And Clint stares at Natalia. Or else he reads.

The morning will start early. Though she is quiet, Natalia rises a little before dawn to begin the process of baking rolls and breads. It is now her task, Inga explained gratefully, which allows the elder woman to sleep in past sunrise. Clint will jolt into awareness when the door beside his own clicks shut. He will sit, cradle his arm, stare at the patterned wallpaper, and listen to the stairs creak slowly with Natalia's descent. When the scent of warm dough and cinnamon fills the house, he will rise, wash a little, then attempt to dress. Of course, he's already had practice living life with one functioning arm. Circus life, not known for being incredibly safe of an occupation, had given him a number of injuries. Yet the practice of dressing could still be a struggle.

He comes downstairs when the sun is a full globe on the flat white horizon.

"Morning."

To which Natalia will incline her head, eyes on the bowl of dough she's kneading or the cake she is icing or the rolls she's carefully layering with sugar and raisins. If he hangs around long enough, she will sigh and pour him a cup of tea. Inga will bustle in an hour or so later. She gives Clint breakfast – one far better than Lara's "_der'mo _sludge" as Inga puts it – then it's time for chores.

Natalia is sent to gather firewood from the shed, then water from the pump for the chickens. Clint trails behind with a pouch of feed for the birds – it is one small thing he can do. He scatters a few handfuls, then watches the creatures peck at their straw-and-dirt floor. Afterward, he follows Natalia to the barn, where Inga's three cows live for the winter. Natalia gives them straw, water, and pets the velvety-wet noses, murmuring softly. He always has to strain to listen. The cows won't let him too near without withdrawing from his companion.

"Your beard scares them," she says one morning absently, abruptly. Staring into the wide brown orbs of Urda, the fawn-coloured cow that is gently standing before the young woman, Natalia strokes the cow's ears.

Clint opens his mouth, then shuts it.

"They've not been around males." Her voice is soft. "So they're a little on-edge."

"Oh?" Clint shifts.

Natalia just nods. There is something coldly soft about her. He's sensing a vague hurt. One that is worn, perhaps scarred over – but aching nonetheless.

It would explain her silence, if that were the case. If Natalia had been hurt by men maybe he put her on edge just as his beard did to the cows.

"_She's so young," _Clint thinks, and perhaps he aches a little too.

**-XXX-**

It had taken her two weeks to figure it out. And did she feel stupid.

There were things…off about Maxim Vetrov's story. She'd felt it from the moment he'd opened his mouth. His job, while not incredibly important, was still enough to create search parties. How often did assistant inspectors go missing off of trains? Besides that, he seemed too unconcerned with letting anyone know where he was. She is wary of him, more so than anyone else she had encountered.

Polite, quiet, relatively friendly, Maxim has not struck a frightening pose since he'd entered Inga's house. He is quite a good houseguest. On the first morning he promptly offered to help with whatever simply labor he might be capable of with only one arm.

Two weeks later, Natasha realizes it isn't the story that is niggling at her mind. It is the start of the story, what came in the story – Maxim's voice.

He had a very slight dialect. Or, perhaps, a whispering accent that spoke of time spent outside of Mother Russia. She's caught it then, but it had not really struck her until dinner two weeks following Vetrov's arrival. He asked Inga a question softly – "_Mozhet ya, pozhaluysta, maslo?"_ to which Inga has passed the butter. And the vowels reminded her of…of….

She had been trained in this. To be able to trace or detect a particular dialect or accent wasn't considered valuable by most in the spy trade, but Natasha's handlers thought otherwise. She could identify over fifty accents and two hundred dialects within those accents. The skill had come into use multiple times in her career.

And it is coming in handy now.

Maxim does not speak as a native born-and-raised Russian. His pulling of the vowels and slight softening of tones are the results of another nationality – a nationality that is, unless Natasha is mistaken, American. American Midwest.

The realization comes while they are coming back from the village store with a few things for Inga. Maxim is carrying the soap with his one good arm, Natalia the bundle of cloves, string for packaging, along with a small sack of potatoes. Demyan is expected in the evening with meat for the table – his family has just slaughtered a few geese on the trapper's lake. Inga had been very pleased with the news Fedor had brought that morning, so she had been less hard with him when he began pestering Natalia to come with him to the circus that was to be touring their spot of countryside next month. Now February, it is warm enough to consider such activities.

Natalia simply stared stonily, then began dressing for a trip to market. Maxim followed suit. They had gathered the goods, and now they journey back to Inga's house.

It is when she drops the string, and when they both stoop to pick it up, that it happens. Maxim has the spool in a flash. They rise, then awkwardly Maxim passes off the string. Obligation allows Natasha to thank him.

"You're welcome."

Two little words. And she hears it. The slight, vague impression of an accent.

They walk on, Natasha drifting behind Maxim in thoughtfulness.

She doesn't dislike him. Distrust, maybe. Feel wary around? Naturally. Natasha doesn't make a point to speak to him frequently, but she has developed a slight fondness for the man. He wasn't…stuffy. He accompanies her in many things, watches her always, but it is not an awkward sort of thing. The silences between them are comfortable ones. That means the world.

It is nearly a week later, shortly after Igna has deemed Maxim's wrist well enough to be removed from its splint, that she finally approaches the topic. They are in the barn, Maxim watching her pet Urda and Mal, when he speaks softly. "_Oni vpolne druzhelyubno segodnya." They are quite friendly today. _

_"Da," _she responds shortly. "The warmer weather is making them calm. They know soon they'll be allowed out properly."

"And us?" He is amused, asking if they will be released soon.

She shrugs. Then, after a pause –

"Where are you from, Mr. Vetrov?"

"Novgorod," he replies quickly, eyes on the cows. Shifting slightly, he angles himself nearer Natasha. She purses her lips. For a moment they allow silence to resume and cold to sink in.

So softly, the young woman suggests, "I would've thought it might've been somewhere foreign. I swear sometimes, Mr. Vetrovs, that I hear American tones in your voice. But America is so far from here, _da? _That would be very ridiculous indeed."

He is quiet. For a long moment it is just them, the wind, the cold, and the soft sound of cows chewing and shuffling hooves. Natasha waits.

Maxim takes a breath. "America? You ever been there, Natalia Fedorova?"

She shakes her head.

Finally Vetrov looks at her, making solid eye contact. His irises are bright, the blue-grey of ocean water, of nearly-stormy summer skies. "Then it's funny that you should know that."

That is all he says. Without a sound, Maxim returns to watching the cows. They do not speak on the matter again.

**-XXX-**

**Many, many thanks to ladygris. **

**Reviews would be lovely...this story seems to have many followers, but not much feedback. It's be appreciated! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the wait, my darlings! Finals have finally arrived, and my life has been a living hell for the past week - think five essays and some awkward group speech, along with studying and being initiated into my kick-ass sorority. Along with catching up on Supernatural. That too. **

**Many thanks to my lovely beta, ladygris, who beta'd this beastie beautifully. **

**And thanks to all my followers still hangin' on. **

**-XXX-**

Things do not progress. For days, they are quieted. Then, it is as if nothing happened at all ,they fall back into routine. Just when Inga began noticing her already soft-spoken housemate's dulled natures, they seem to recover and all is well again. Peace rules the bakery. Natasha returns to icing cakes, spooning batter into cups, and rolling dough without a glaze over her eyes to match the sugar buns. She went through the motions, as always, making the dozens and dozens of pastries, cakes, pies, muffins, rolls, and breads to it took to feed the village - but, for the moment, the motions were made with more awareness.

Maxim's strength has returned. He has completely assumed the barn chores, though Natalia will accompany him to visit the cows. They sit in the loft some afternoons, gazing out over the flat and barren horizon of their temporary living situation. Humor often quirks Maxim's dry lips. Natalia can only but wonder what he thinks on. She cannot ask, however. They never ask. It's not necessary.

She goes into town for Inga about two weeks following their confrontation. It is without Maxim, as he was busy helping Demyan load a wagon for the trapper. On her walk into the village, Natasha finds that she misses Maxim's silent form beside her. She has not, in recent history, come and gone in errands without him. The feeling is odd; not entirely loneliness, but the vague sense that something is missing. She trudges on, pushing the indistinct emotion back.

Letters posted, orders made, Natasha walks back to the cottage on light limbs. Spring is nearing. The snow is slush. Beneath her boots it makes a squeaking sound, a noise that is thick and unpleasant to her ears. It becomes even more unpleasant when she realizes her feet are not the only ones contributing to the haze of slush. Half-turning, she is greeted with the sight of Fedor, Maska, and Grigori, three of the village goons that often followed or harassed her 'round Inga's.

Spine straightening instantly, Natasha lifts her head, lips curling. Fists curl of their own accord. Her gaze flickers about briefly, taking in the scenery – always looking for an escape. There is a hill just beyond, and the town is to her back. As the boys near, the young woman's muscles tense. Fedor, a brute of a young man, pauses before her.

"Fedorova, we've not seen you alone in a long time. That dog has been following you to and fro for weeks. I was beginning to think you'd claimed him for your own. Yet he's not here."

"He's with your stepfather," Natalia says shortly. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Maska shift, amusement in his wide eye. "Doing the work you're far too lazy to manage."

An angry line sets to Fedor's mouth. He continues. "Or perhaps you've become his pet…bitch to the train inspector. Rising up in life, Natalia?"

If they were anywhere else and if she were any other girl those words would've landed Fedor a swift hit to the nose, which was bulbous. But she stays calm, blinks with the utmost chill in her crystalline eyes, the eyes Maxim jokingly called, just last evening, enchantingly cold. _"Ice Princess," _he had said. She's cuffed him, smiling, while Inga, who sat back in her old chair, clucked.

She cannot loose control. Not for this sorry sonofabitch. Her fists press closer to her thighs. He simply is not worth it. And she's got to get back to Inga. There are tarts to be iced.

"Have a nice afternoon," the baker's assistant says icily, pushing past the young men. But Fedor won't have it, and Maska slides in front of Natalia's path. She halts, tilting her head up. The boy – for that is what he truly is, a boy – grins.

"It's a little disappointing, Fedorova, to see you with him. After all, we've spent all this time, waiting to court you. If I'd known you were attracted to city rats I might've lowered my own bar."

It is useless to contradict him – Maxim is not from the cities east, not truly, nor are they in a courtship – so Natalia squeezes her lips together as Fedor nears. He's flexing his fingers. The smile he has plastered on his stupid face makes her sick – it reminds her of Klaus. But he is not Klaus, and this is not the Red Room. No rules oppress her, aside from her own.

There is no one nearby. They're just past the village, everyone is inside, working. She's been through this, worse, really, she just needs a bit of leverage….she need not scream….Oh, but they would want her to scream….

His meaty hand traces one breast, going along the collar of her coat to sneak in nearer the warm, trembling flesh, another moving to her thigh, to the warm, wet place between those thighs, and he's lowered his head, and suddenly-

Fedor is thrown twelve feet from the baker's assistant, howling when he hits snow. In the process he has torn off a few of her coat buttons. Grigori comes at her next, with Maska at her back. The first is catapulted over to hit the second, both toppling down to land in the snow. Maska scrambles up, coming to rush at Natalia, but she deflects his untrained blows with ease, using her legs after a few punches are thrown, to take his out from under him. By that time, a dazed and angry Fedor has risen, and rears for revenge against the girl. In her slight form, she appear not as a threat, but nonetheless he is wary enough to edge around before charging.

It is a fatal choice. Natalia ducks. She hits him squarely in his soft stomach (a result of excess vodka and ale), knocking him back onto the ground. Then, wrapping nimble fingers about his thick neck, she cracks it left, then right. Fedor is paralyzed. It would last hours. At most, days. She never could quite tell.

With that, Natasha left the moaning collection of young men in the dirty snow. It was not so cold as to threaten their lives. But cold enough for discomfort.

She is only about three meters away when a figure on the hill casts a long and lean shadow across the snow. Maxim Vetrov stands, observing the mess of snow, mud, and young men. Natalia, who can feel the mud caking her cheek, and smell sweat on her, tense her lean form, is embarrassed. Maxim only stares impassively. She breaks her pause to continue her way up the hill, joining him. Standing only a few feet below him, the baker's assistant gazes up, emboldened by her fight, unabashed now.

Maxim offers a hand. Then, cautiously, a half-smile.

And without a moment's consideration, it is returned.

"I would have come," he says, "Down to help, I mean. But you were holding your own so nicely. I didn't want to interrupt your…fun."

They both know it wasn't a keenness for excitement that drove Natalia to the fight. But Clint would not speak it. He simply waits.

"I would have been very put-out if you did," she replies dryly. Natasha accepts the hand. It is without a glove. She finds it to be dry and warm.

"Then I'm happy not to have disappointed."

**-XXX-**

**I think, possibly, I might've finished this beast up. I've been working on it since early August, so this is pleasant. You shall have approx. 12 chapters, which will fit with the title - and I do hope someone gets the title - and possibly an epilogue, but that's not certain. We'll see how my holiday break goes. I've been meaning to take a crack at Banner, and perhaps polish up a Labyrinth piece or two, maybe even go back to HP or OUaT temporarily. **

**Anyways, thank you! Reviews would be greatly appreciated. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Many thanks goes to ladygris for beta'ing so very nicely. We've officially finished off editing all previous chapters, so it's forwards from here!**

**Loving the support, guys.**

**-XXX-**

Later the words come. Slips of truth, spoken in the dead of night in the stale air of the musty barn, voices muffled by hay and emotion. No specifics – nothing more than vague statements. But with those statements come knowing looks, shared with gleaming eyes.

America. She feels out of place, even though he was the foreigner. She'd rarely had assignments away from the Mother Country. He strikes her as cultured, knowledgeable in a way beyond his years. In his allusions, Natasha gathers him to be rather worldly, well-traversed in travel and cultures. He'd been more of his own person than she, a victim of the Red Room, could ever be.

They speak of the concept of ledgers, like tallying their crimes. For the first time, she relates her ill feelings, the dread that came with the snapping of bones and blossoms of blood. Someoneunderstands. Maxim sits and nods as she shares snippets of memory, voice dull, narrative halting. She's taken the lives of many. Yet, the discomfort of that knowledge remains with her; it does not sit well.

Maxim has a quieter discomfort, but one present nonetheless. He is not enslaved to his employers – his missions are rarely against his liking. According to the hints of stories he shares, the lives he takes are not motivated by greed, revenge, or mere anger, but by a want to protect the world, save people…_"one for one hundred," _he says, half-smiling in the soft evening light. Natasha gives a slip of a smile back. The thought is a nicer one. And it leaves her unsettled. The lives she has taken, corrupt or not, the situation has seemed more _"one hundred for one," _when it came to motivation.

She wonders what it must feel like to relatively trust those who you work for. To know that someone is benefiting from your slowly fading morals. Natasha cannot imagine such an arrangement. Handlers…they are not concerned with _you. _Merely the job. And your worth as an agent.

Maxim speaks on great length of his handler – a fellow who is sharp, but caring. The type who could do paperwork in his sleep. Witty. Personable. He isn't a pile of stones, impassive and coarse.

Natasha's experience with handlers merely has no comparison. It leads to a great deal of reflection. She knew the job was horrid, was more than glad to get out alive, and she'd never had plans to enter into the field as an agent ever again. She is done with that life.

And yet…she has no other skill set. The bakery is working out, yes. But, she acknowledges that the village will not hold her forever. Once she has found strength and peace, she will likely move on.

But to what? And where?

**-XXX-**

What follows the revelation is a peace. A new season blossoms forth, tentative as any Russian spring. Natalia greets the tender green buds and flowers with a gentleness neither Inga nor Clint anticipated. Only Clint takes into account her years separate from the simple pleasures of the world – one whose lifestyle is centered around the Red Room doesn't have much time for admiring flowers. So, as they walk to and fro between the bakery and Demyan's farm, he doesn't comment on the frequent pauses to observe a flower or passing butterfly, the sweep of a hand to caress fresh green leaves.

Sometimes, she lifts her head, tossing back her plait, rolling her shoulders back, face to the sun like the petals of one of the blooms she so loves. Natalia absorbs sunlight. Her pale flesh gleams, lips slightly part as she closes her eyes. It is quite a sight.

He laughs at her, teases her by calling her a sloth. Natalia bats at him lazily before releasing her mane from its plait to toss it roughly before she closes her eyes. Without a doubt, spring is the best feeling. The air is no longer cool enough to hurt her lungs. Her feet do not freeze. She can feel soft grass beneath her boot, watch a flutter of sunlight as it breaks through the leaves of the forest, smell mist seep into her room each morn. Natasha loves spring.

"It's a new beginning," she tells Maxim one day, seriously. "Rebirth. Dawn."

"Yes," he agrees. "What shall you do with it?"

She doesn't know. Instead, she bites her lip, half-smiling. Beside her, pulling up tuffs of grass to toss into the breeze, Maxim grins back.

Oh yes, she most definitely loves springtime.

**-XXX-**

**Reviews would be lovely...just a few words below, please. Questions, comments, concerns, etc. **

**Also, if you're on Twitter or Tumblr and you're interested, check me out!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks goes to lovely ladygris for beta'ing. Also, to my reviewers and followers for the support and feedback. I really appreciate it!**

-XXX-

"Why don't you go back?" she asks one lazy afternoon. Inga is in town, gossiping at the post office with a few friends, or buying freshly carded wool to spin from the Ovechkin's, leaving Maxim and Natasha to themselves. The baker's assistant kneaded stiff dough as her companion sipped too-sweet tea the color of chocolate syrup. Hair pinned back, flour smudged on her nose, and sleeves of her dress pushed up, it's almost easy to forget that she is a deadly force of natureClint runs a finger along the rim of the teacup, catching his flesh on the chip near the handle, watching the dark liquid quiver. "Go back?"

"To your handlers? It sounds like you were comfortable. So…why stay here? I thought you meant to go back?"

"Oh, yes," he agrees lightly, but his brow furrows. "I did intend on it."

"But you've stayed."

"Yes," Maxim says again. His eyes turn to the window. The fading sun gives his skin a yellowy tone and makes the entire room appear golden. "I have."

She waits. When it seems his thoughts are not forthcoming, Natasha sighs. She comes 'round the scrubbed table Inga uses as her prep station, stopping before her companion with her brows raised. Maxim meets her eyes with a dazed gaze, before his eyes crinkle with a smile. Natasha folds her hands, or means to, but his flash out to grab them, taking them in his own grasp. There is silence in the baker's cottage. Natasha bites her lip.

"I couldn't bear to leave another like me alone. And there is no reason to go back in a hurry. I have time."

Tilting her head, the baker's assistant considers the answer. "Ah."

"I have time," he repeats. "And what would you do without me, Natalia Fedorova?"

_"Teasing. He's teasing."_ Pulling a hand from his grasp, Natasha reaches behind her in a huff, fingers scrambling to find the weapon she knows to be just to the right…a little more… there!

The handful of flour is tossed into Maxim's face with a slight gasp, and she leaps back, giggling madly. The spy blinks once, twice, then rises in his realization to follow her. Natasha yelps, skating across the scratched floor to the other side of the table, ducking through his hands. But Maxim is just as fast, and he's already lunging to her right, going around the table.

Breathless – my, she is out of shape! – she laughs when his hands find her waist, pulling her against him. Then, then they pause – Natasha still shaking with laughter, Maxim grinning madly. He looses his hold briefly to takes his own handful of flour to sprinkle over her copper locks. Another few fingers go to power her nose. Natasha quivers with a pent up joy, slight, almost-giggles escaping.

When the laughter fades, the pair separated, fluid as ever. They smile at the mussed up hair, powered clothes, and each other.

Inga returns to the half-cleaned kitchen, Maxim on his knees with a scrub brush, and Natalia quietly kneading dough. Neither speaks except to greet her amiably. She looks between them, spots the slips of smiles, then the sprinkling of flour upon their lean persons. The baker says nothing, but wanders from the room in a happily tempered mood.

-XXX-

But bliss can't last forever, though; that's simply not how the world works. They both sense this. At some point, they mean to gather a plan of some sorts, a strategy for escape. They meant to do this.

-XXX-

Demyan's boy couldn't take the slight on his manhood. When the opportunity rises to exact some kind of revenge, he claims it happily. The men, dressed darkly, press into the night like demons on high that his grandmother had warned him of, mysterious and foreboding. He doesn't ask questions, not after the tall one bared teeth the first time Fedor tried. From what little the young man could gather, the baker's assistant is not her own person; she belongs to them. She is theirs, in some manner, and Fedor's mind automatically turns to sinister, sexual forms of understanding. The fiery girl was a common brothel whore? Some sort of prostitute? He's even more disappointed he's not had the opportunity to taste her flesh.

The disappointment is short-lived, however, when he remembers that she'll be adequately punished for her sins. He feels a slight ache in his stomach at the thought. "Deserving," his mind whispers in return. The days he spent in bed, unable to move, forced to listen to the world move on, the angry snappy of sheets as his mother moved about the room, mumbling hateful words against the girl who his dreadful aunt took in.

They say they will take her in the night. They'll go to the cottage. Take her out, drag her back with them. No one will be the wiser.

Of course, it doesn't go that way. The dawn comes, and Inga is found in the snow, half-dead from the cold, wide-eyed, hands curled into horrid claws. When she has been warmed by the fire, she murmurs of the baker's girl, the men in the night…and on. And on.

Demyan finds the house ransacked. The front parlor's furniture has been tossed about. Utensils, pots, pans, and flour litter the kitchen – it looks, he tells the postmaster, as though a stand-off went down in his sister's bakery. Blood mixed with salt upon the floor in one corner, a paring knife lying soaked in scarlet a few feet away. Foot prints, large and menacing, can be found in the flour and the snow.

The pair of strangers that had been living in his sister's house were not to be found. Inga's stroke leaves her unable to speak properly for weeks. When she can finally say the words, it comes out simply: They came for Natalia. Maxim followed. And there was nothing more to it.

Fedor tucked himself away in the barn the night following. His aunt's hollow gaze tore through him mercilessly. The boy faced the horrid truth that he truly had no clue what he'd done.

**-XXX-**

**Two to go….**

**Reviews would be lovely! **


	11. Chapter 11

**I am so grateful for my most lovely beta, ladygris (who has some fantastic Avengers ficts you should certainly check out), and you, my lovely readers. The feedback has been so warming. I hope everyone is having a spectacular holiday season, and look for the final chapter in the next few days!**

**-XXX-**

He wakes up in the barn, beside the cows that he and Natalia had not so long ago teased. Covered in mud and blood. His head is pounding. The voices of Demyan and Fedor, along with some other men of the village, echo around the yard.

He waits.

Then he follows.

For a month he searches. Back to the trains, he crosses the country, trailing them to Moscow. He has a few connections in the information business that he squeezes for leads. And then, in the city –

He loses the trail. It goes pitifully cold – to be expected, they had almost two days ahead of him, and a city full of allies – and Clint is forced to face his options.

SHIELD had given up the search for him. It wasn't unheard of for offline agents to "return from the dead." He could return. There would be few questions. Unlike Natalia's handlers, Clint's people trusted him. So, in the dingy little St. Petersburg's bar, listening to a fading vocalist murmur to an off-key piano, Clint Barton makes the decision to leave Russia for the SHIELD base in Paris – closer than Cardiff (barely) and a little more relaxed. Paris people would listen to him. He doubts that the Welsh would give him time to explain.

**-XXX-**

He's welcomed back – though the term _"welcomed" _is used loosely – to the organization. They've missed their Hawk. Coulson takes over handling him immediately, dropping all other agents on his roster to bring Hawk up-to-date and starting on recuperating.

"You've missed a lot," says Phil, fiddling with one of his pencils, straightening the paper strewn across his desk. Clint eyes the glass, laser-cut paperweight in the corner, the one next to the framed Captain America playbill –_"From the New York show," _Phil had proclaimed proudly when Clint noticed the new item on the desk – and he listens to Phil describe the last several months at SHIELD. The new policies. New recruits. The ins-and-outs.

He listens with a dull ear. All he can think is how the faded red of the Captain's background matches her lips and how the cut crystal facets of the paperweight caught the coolness of her gaze. He's not quite hearing. But that's fine.

When Phil stops, leaning back in his chair, then pushing the receptionist call button for Marilyn, Clint straightens.

"Coffee, please," he instructs the young woman. She bobs her head, then ducks from the room, leaving with only a passing glance at the Hawk.

"Thirsty, Coulson?" Barton asks.

"No." The handler's brows rise. "But you are. You're not exactly alert today, Clint. You haven't been since you returned." He leans forward. " You were out there a long time…in the middle of nowhere. Russia is a big place, Clint, but I thought we still might've found you. And somehow we didn't. Something happen out there? Something you want to tell me about?"

Marilyn returns bearing a plain white mug. She places it before Clint, using a coaster, then retreats to her desk outside, shutting the door softly behind her. Clint accepts the cup, curling his fingers around it.

Phil waits.

After he swallows a bitter mouthful, Barton meets his handler's eyes.

"No," he says tonelessly. "Nothing I can think of."

**-XXX-**

**This is not the end! We've got one more chapter left, hang in there with me! **


	12. Chapter 12

**The last one...wow. When I started this sucker in August, I did not predict my little oneshot would grow into such a piece. **

**-XXX-**

_"Agent Barton. Do you have the target in your sights?"_

His fingers inadvertently tighten around the bowstring, taut with readiness. His muscles are equally tense. In his nest, Clint is the picture of prepared. His eyes are on the target, sights of the bow completely focused.

"Yes, " he croaks, praying they don't notice his dry throat, that they simply take it for a symptom of maintaining relative silence. If Coulson picked up on it…if Coulson knew…realized….

_"Are you ready?"_

_…__._he could be compromised. He is already compromised. The moment he saw that flash of scarlet….

_"Barton?" _His earpiece crackles. _"Confirm – are you ready?"_

No.

But he doesn't say it aloud. Instead, the Hawk shifts, leaning forward a hair. He lets out a short breath before saying huskily, "Confirmed."

_"On three," _the voice commands. _"One…"_

There s a slight quiver in his hand, one that affects the steadiness of the arrow. The bow quakes. Clint curses under his breath, shifts again, eyes darting back down. She stands in the smoke and rubble of the once-elegantly appointed room. Her back is to him. He allows his eyes to linger on the sleek form. A braid of red, pointed and plaited perfectly, hangs past her shoulders, down her back nearly to her waist. She looks…ragged. The slim shoulders sag.

She's a kid. Just a kid. He knows that better than anyone in SHIELD – damn, better than anyone, period.

_"Natalia…." _His throat closes.

With a twitch of his finger, the job would be done. Her suffering might end. He'd be protecting people. Doing his duty. Wiping his ledger.

But what of hers?

Less than twenty, and it's already soaked. He knows it is. SHIELD showed him the files, the videos, the eyewitness reports. In the mere three years since the Serovsky Incident, Natasha Romanoff claimed the lives of dozens. Not all of these claims had been on behalf of the Red Room, either. No, six months following her re-capture from her quiet life with Inga, Natasha made another go at escaping – and fully succeeded. Through a series of well-aimed threats and manipulations, the Red Room removed itself, permanently, from the life of their former top assassin. Since then, she'd turned to the only means of income she knew, her only livelihood: freelance assassinations. Quick, dirty, expensive affairs. She did them well.

Well enough to become a problem for SHIELD. Oh, they'd noted her work. And while they couldn't quite blame her for Red Room orders due to brutalization and distress, they could not excuse her actions following her release from their services. Those actions had to be condemned.

_"…three!"_

There is a crackle, a twitch, Clint closes his eyes, and the arrow flies –

Ten feet to Natasha's left. She spins, plait whipping the air, eyes flashing, gaze sweeping the upper level of the tiered ballroom for her attacker – _savior _– until it stops dead in his corner. His eyes open. And Barton stands.

_"Barton? What the hell? Barton?"_

"I'll get back to you, chief," he says shortly. "I have something I've got to take care of here."

And with that, he plucks out the earpiece.

They'll hold off on reigning him in for at least a few minutes. He can count on it – just as he told Natalia. Trust.

She had tensed, in the seconds between spotting him and his rising. Her fist curled in, form arched, body quivering with a readied energy. One hand goes for her belt, the holster. Now, she's stock-still. He's reminded of that day, in the snow. The brawl between the baker's girl and a few village idiots. Her stance when the shadow fell across the muddied snow. The anger and fear of one trapped.

There is a definite click, and Clint finds himself staring down the barrel of a coal-black Sig Sauer P228. Her icy eyes are as cold as the metal of her weapon.

Even when he is before her, she maintains her defensive pose. She'd be a fool to do otherwise.

"You finally outran 'em," he says softly. The fist relaxes. But the gun is steady. "After all this time, you managed to leave."

Her chin juts upwards. But there is no verbal response.

Quietly, Clint speaks. "I went after you. I tried. For weeks, I searched. But I know the Red Room. They weren't going to have you found. I still kept my ear out. All these years. Hoping maybe you'd gotten out."

She shifts slightly, expression impassive. Typical of her.

"Freelancing. You've done well, Natalia."

The name makes her flinch, but she doesn't blink. "It pays the bills."

To hear her clipped, neat tones is something of a sentimental tug. She replies in English, rather than Russian, so the sound is altered. But the effect would've come, either way. It's Natalia standing before him. _Natalia._

"Yeah," Barton agrees. "And makes 'em. How many times have you had to move now? Or have you even set up a permanent residence?"

There is no answer. Merely a glassy gaze.

"You once said you wanted to rid your ledger of red."

"A long time ago." There is no venom in her tone – merely weariness edged with wariness.

"Does that still stand? Because…if it does, I know people who can help you. People who'd utilize your particular set for something other than death." Gently, he nears. "People who could help you clean that record."

"Yes." Her posture falters, shoulders falling by an inch or so. Her arms quiver under the weight of the gun. Clint tries not to eye the Sig.

"I can help you. They can help you. But…only if you want, Natalia."

He can see her hesitating, visualizes the inner battle of will, and quickly says, "And if you don't…well. The big guys upstairs, they say I gotta take you out. Eliminate the Widow who is taking out our operatives. And I've gotta tell you, Natalia…I'm not really keen on doing that. So please. Don't make me."

No response.

He tries again. "Natalia. I don't want to this. Let us help you. It's different. It's better. They'll not let you sink." He offers forth a hand. "Trust me."

Wordless, the gun is tucked into her holster. And her fingers find his palm. Her entire figure seems to drop the rigid posture. Then, all at once, she falls into Clint. For a moment, they're still.

She shifts upon hearing a crackle. Clint glances down at his earpiece. "Damn."

With a sigh, he presses the bit back into his ear, wincing to hear his handler's frantic shouts.

_"Barton?! Barton? What the hell is going on down there? Report!"_

"Nothing too spectacular, boss," the Hawk says shortly. "I've just recruited you a new agent. And this one…well. She's already got a reputation you can advertise."

The young woman smiles up at him.

"Natasha Romanoff," he says into the mic quietly. "Our new Widow."

**-XXX-**

**6 months later**

"She won't play nicely with any of the other kids, Clint," Coulson explains in a mildly exasperated tone. "Steals their toys, calls them names, sometimes snaps a few fingers…."

The pair of agents sit before him. Natasha, impassive as ever, gazes upon the handler with eyes so blue and bright Coulson swears she's x-raying him with those orbs. Barton, on the other hand, is perfectly relaxed. The Hawk appears entirely unconcerned.

"This is a problem," Phil emphasizes slowly.

"Yeah, Phil, but from where I'm sitting it looks like you're putting her with people ill-equipped for the field. Rookies. Numbskulls. Forgive me," he says, without a trace of apology. "But we both know she's better than that."

The Widow crosses her arms, never once taking her eyes off of Phillip Coulson. The agent has been on the receiving end of a number of glares and stares in his time with SHIELD. Supernatural villains to top-rate felons, he's had it all. But none have struck him as much as this young woman's icy orbs.

"Fair enough," Coulson agrees. "But you know how it goes, Barton. They're tentative to trust….someone with Agent Romanoff's background."

"So they're telling you to pair her with morons?" Clint shakes his head. "We both knew Swain was going to be a bust. And Morter's such a big-shot in his own head, did you see them working out? No, c'mon Phil. You want her to earn trust? Put her with someone who knows what they're doing. She's having to carry the weight of all of these missions on her shoulder. She's got no one with a backbone to show her the ethics, the way we do things here."

The Hawk took a breath. Glancing at Natasha, he suggests lightly, "Put her with me."

Coulson blinks. "Excuse me?"

"I don't have a partner; put her with me," Clint repeats.

"I don't—"

"Listen. Coulson. She needs someone with a backbone. She needs it. And you want her to stop beating up kids in the schoolyard and learn to play nicely. I can do that. When was the last time I got any kind of in-house report?"

_"In-house" _refers to reports or referrals made on issues within SHIELD, usually agent-to-agent disputes. Conflicts of this nature are far from rare – there are a lot of attitudes on the team. And Clint, Coulson has to admit, has a grand total of none. The guy is chill, not the type to start fights. He would be a good role model for their newest recruit.

"Alright," the handler relents. "I'll give you three months. Any more incidents, if I have to fill out one more report…."

He drifts off, leaving the consequences up to their imaginations.

**-XXX-**

**Fin.**

**-XXX-**

**Many, many, many thanks to my most excellent beta, ladygris, who beta'd with enthusiasm and promptness. It's due to her that the story is even remotely coherent. **

**Also, thanks goes to you, my dear readers and reviewers. I've enjoyed a new crowd for my first Clint and Natasha piece. I'm sorry if you're in any way disappointed with the lack of romance. However, I started this story with a goal, and I never really intended to make it anything steamy. Either way, I am ever so grateful for the support and feedback. Watch for more, if you're interested, or check out my page for other Avengers pieces. **

**Thank you!**


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